Hogwarts 1910 The Wizards' Nemesis
by Tannhaeuser
Summary: Eighty years before Harry Potter, Hogwarts celebrates the Feast of Nemesis, in which young wizards may take revenge without hindrance. The Young Fops of Gryffindor take a hand. Written in the style of H.H. Munro, AKA "Saki."
1. Chapter 1

**Hogwarts 1910 ―**_**The Wizards' Nemesis**_

1.

"_Just think how jolly it would be if a recognised day were set apart for the paying off of old scores and grudges, a day when one could lay oneself out to be gracefully vindictive to a carefully treasured list of 'people who must not be let off.' I remember when I was at a private school we had one day, the last Monday of the term I think it was, consecrated to the settlement of feuds and grudges..."_

―From _The Feast of Nemesis_ by Saki

"Ladies and Gentlemen," said Headmistress Urganda Spelvexit, "next Monday, as you know, will be the last Monday of term, which is traditionally celebrated here at Hogwarts as the Feast of Nemesis. The wisdom of our ancestors laid down that on this day any private scores accumulated by students over the course of the year might be settled without hindrance from professor or prefect. I should be the last to fly in the face of tradition; let me remind you that the knout is the traditional punishment for an assault on a Headmaster."

She spoke feelingly. At least six headmasters of Hogwarts had been severely wounded on the Feast of Nemesis, one Phineas Nigellus fatally. Apparently his young charges had felt that a knouting was a moderate price to pay for a crack at him.

"Let me warn you, this day is to be used for the settlement of old grudges only. All claims regarding unprovoked outrages will be subject to thorough examination, including the use of torture where warranted, and any student found guilty of mere random violence will be handed over to our caretaker, Mr. Ketch, who has returned invigorated from his stay at the asylum and is eager to prove himself. I must emphasise to Slytherin House that possession of Muggle blood is not in itself considered sufficient provocation. You have been warned. Let us have all affairs conducted in the clean, wholesome spirit of British revenge."

* * *

"I say," protested Orlo Queek, a first year with a face like curdled milk, "the Hedders was just rotting about this whole Feast of Nemesis business, wasn't she?"

"Rather not!" purred Aurelian Orphrey, stretching himself out like a young lion on a couch in the Gryffindor common room, with an indecent pleasure in finding the cushion of deep golden satin that best complimented his thick tawny hair. "The feast of Nemesis is one of our most sacred and ruthlessly guarded traditions. It was in 1857 that a Professor of Muggle Studies, a man of the most rigid principles and collars, agitated to have Nemesis Day banned on grounds of inhumanity. He was a Calvinist or Schopenhauerian or something, and absolutely hopeless in every other way as well. After a long and diligent search, including the use of specially trained Nifflers, he was identified by the gold stoppings in his remaining teeth."

"But what if the Slytherins imagine we've offended them?"

"I should acquire an unwonted respect for their intelligence. But I shouldn't worry too much about the Slytherins. Imagination of any variety is rather beyond them. They haven't the self-control to save up any really good schemes for Nemesis Day. They _will_ lose their tempers and let fly with an ineffectual Crucio; and then of course you can have them sent off to Azkaban with a deep sense of having done your duty in removing an enemy of society, as well as the keener satisfaction of having removed an enemy of yourself. No, I should say it's the Ravenclaws one has to look out for—they're an uncomfortably ingenious lot—and, of course, the Hufflepuffs."

"The Hufflepuffs! But they're so decent!"

"Precisely why they're so dangerous on Nemesis Day. Where you or I, having been hit by a Jelly-legs or, worse, having a particularly flattering set of Quidditch robes pinched by a Slytherin, can relieve our feelings immediately by giving him six of the best with a Bludger bat, the poor Puffers are bound by their morbid consciences to smile like the more refined sort of virgin martyrs and 'pocket up these wrongs.' Naturally, when they turn out their pockets at the end of the year, the results are calculated to make strong Wizards shudder. Hell hath no fury like a saint given permission to be vindictive. What's more, when a Slytherin is offended, he lets you know it — indeed, the difficulty is to get him to shut up about it—and so one is on one's guard; whereas, with a Hufflepuff, you may have taken the last muffin at breakfast or mortally insulted his grandmother, and you realise he's been brooding over it all year only when you find yourself dangling by a hair over a cauldron of boiling pitch and he's holding a candle to the hair. Last year young Wilfred Diggory set a Manticore loose in the Slytherin common room."

"What!"

"It was only a transfigured one, of course, and about as dangerous as the tea-cosy he made it of. Honestly, where the Slytherins could have expected a second-year to have come up with a Class Five Restricted creature is more than I can fathom; but then all Slytherins are thick as library paste. Vulcanus Mulciber, the silly ass, threw a fireball at it: the Common Room was charred, and three Slytherins had to be sent to St. Mungo's to grow their skin back. Even I could scarcely have done better."

"You mean even you could scarcely have done worse. But what happened to Wilfred Diggory?"

"A week of detention (suspended); and a vote of thanks from the assembled student body."


	2. Chapter 2

**Hogwarts 1910**

_**The Wizards' Nemesis**_

_2._

"_The propriety of continuing the practice of allowing Wizards of non-native extraction to attend the nation's Wizarding schools has recently been exercising the attention of leading authorities in magical education. It being admitted by all that the moulding of civic character is among the foremost of the schoolmaster's aims, doubts have been raised as to whether the admission of students whose loyalty can at any rate hardly be said to be deeply rooted might not constitute an influence detrimental to the formation of a proper Imperial attitude on the benches where _perimit sævos classis numerosa tyrannos_. Particularly in those educational establishments in which the increasing trend toward allowing Muggle-borns to attend has resulted already in a certain measure of disunity, it is felt that the additional strain inevitably, even if inadvertently, effected by foreign elements may, or rather must, have deleterious consequences on the morale of Young Wizarding Britain. This being the case, an important vote will take place on Thursday next among the governors of Britain's premier Wizarding school to determine whether foreign-born Wizards will be permitted at that institution any further."_

— _The Daily Prophet, _Leading Article, June 17th, 1910

"I say we go and burn their common rooms down," growled Vulcanus Mulciber. He was a thick youth, in every sense; Aurelian's likening him to library paste had been purely figurative, however, as no imagination, however _outré_, could ever picture Mulciber in a library. He was tolerated even among the Slytherins only for the immense wealth he derived from old Daedalus Mulciber (_né _Miggs) who had sold magical munitions to the Muggle monarchs of Europe and thus constituted a sort of Missing Link between the Mulcibers and Muggles—a link which Vulcanus was determined should remain missing.

"My dear Mulciber," drawled Clodius Malfoy, screwing an eyeglass into his eye, "I've no desire to spend another three weeks at St. Mungo's, particularly as the Mater insisted on being there every moment, pressing a cloth to her dear boy's brow—which is jolly uncomfortable when there's no skin on it. No, Opalstein's the lad for this job; his kind are always good at plotting petty revenges."

"I can't think why we even allow that sort at Hogwarts, much less in Slytherin. If you want to talk of dirty blood, there's not much dirtier than a—"

"I dare say," interjected a voice, soft, supple, and dark-brown as a sable, "it must be our British gift for recognising talent, even in those descended from wizards like Solomon rather than—I forget, just what were your ancestors, Mulciber?"

On the deep leather chesterfield before the hooded Slytherin fireplace a boy with sleepy black eyes and a cat with green-gold, glaring ones basked in the dark flame's warmth. Simon-Magus Opalstein, having apparently just cast down _The Daily Prophet_, was stroking Rhadamanthus, his great Black Corat cat; it would be difficult to say which of the two animals looked more comfortable—or more formidable.

"I trust you'll not take Mulciber's silly joke seriously, Opalstein," said Clodius, smoothly insinuating himself into one of the chairs.

"I suppose Klingsor or Dr. Faustus might have accomplished the miracle of taking Mulciber seriously," reflected Simon-Magus, "but I freely confess it's beyond my powers. Do you remember when he used Smaragdoleum to encrust his robes with emeralds? A lesser artist would have taken them off first. The lad's a comic genius."

If Aurelian had been present, it is not unlikely that he would have ordered a new set of Quidditch robes in the rather fetching scarlet Mulciber's face had assumed. Vulcanus did not like being reminded of the incident. The matron had had to chip him laboriously out of the glittering green chrysalis, and his hair never had grown back properly.

"Certainly his talents lie in different directions from yours;" Clodius remarked evenly, "In fact, I was rather hoping that with Nemesis Day here, you might do us the favour…"

"Oh, speaking of favours, Malfoy, I've one to ask of you. I've rather an important letter to send, down Wiltshire way—that's where your kip is, isn't it?"

"We have a _manor_ in Wiltshire."

"Splendid. I don't have an owl of my own, you know, and this is something I'd rather not trust to one of the school birds. I did think of using Rhadamanthus; I must have transfigured him no fewer than thirty times this afternoon, but he refused to play along, and withdrew in rather a marked manner to chase a ball of yarn provided by some Hufflepuffs. So very like Hufflepuffs to go about with pockets distended with yarn."

"Here," exploded Vulcanus, "what _is_ all this?"

"It's very simple, Mulciber," explained Simon-Magus indulgently. "Malfoy is going to lend me his owl. Celaeno must know Wilts. as well as you know…well, we can figure something out later."

"I could not possibly think of letting Celaeno fly so far," said Clodius, stiffly. "She is a very rare and expensive sort of owl, a… a… "

"—a Stygian owl, in fact— "

"…er, yes, and I could not so much as consider a course that might lead—"

"—to her not coming back. And, after all, why should she want to? Well, I can't say I'm not disappointed, but I understand your reluctance. I know I should be sick as a hydra with a hangover if anything were to happen to Rhadamanthus here." He stroked the great black beast lovingly and, rising, twined him round his neck like a velvet collar. "Well, I'm off to the school mews, then. I can always ask to borrow an owl from some unsuspecting Gryffindor; if he refuses, I'll at least have a reason to avenge myself on him this Monday."

"Ah, and as to what revenge we should take…" began Clodius, but Simon-Magus cut him off

"I didn't say _we_ should take revenge, Malfoy—I said _I_ should. My advice to you for Nemesis Day is to barricade yourselves in the Common Room and pray for the day to pass quickly. Any attempt you'd make on the other Houses would probably land you back in St. Mungo's. After all, you don't have the talent for petty revenges that 'my kind' has."

"If 'your kind' had any loyalty to Slytherin, you'd help us hex the Gryffindors," sneered Clodius.

"_Au contraire_, if I hadn't any loyalty to Slytherin, I'd hex you myself," smiled Simon-Magus over his cat's shoulder, and passed out of the Common Room.

"Well—well, of all the Beasts!" spluttered Clodius. He turned a white-hot face to his companion.

"Why 'a hydra'?" asked Vulcanus with a knotted brow

"What?"

"You'd think a Chinese Fireball with a hangover would be meaner—or maybe a Nundoo. Why 'a hydra'?"

"Because it has _nine heads_—which leaves it with a distinct advantage over certain people who haven't even one to speak of." As Vulcanus stood puzzling over this latest allusion, Clodius retrieved the _Daily Prophet_ Simon-Magus had dropped, and sat scanning it moodily. Suddenly he shot up.

"Mulciber! Listen to this! '…An important vote will take place on Thursday next among the governors of Britain's premier Wizarding school to determine whether foreign-born Wizards will be permitted at that institution any further.'"

"So?"

"Ass! 'Britain's premier Wizarding school' is Hogwarts. You know my Mater is one of the governors. She pretty well tells all the others what to do. If she shows up for this vote at all, they're bound to kick all the foreigners out."

"What good will that do? There are no foreigners at Hogwarts, except for the Scotch and the Irish, and they don't count."

Clodius removed his eyeglass, polished it, and replaced it, with an unlovely smirk. "Opalstein's family is from Vienna. _He's_ foreign-born." The boy settled back into his chair with a repellent air of self-satisfaction. "It would seem that we Malfoys have a talent for petty revenge after all. What a pity Opalstein won't be returning next year to admire it!"

"_Hmph_. I don't call that much of a revenge. Can't we poison that cat of his?"

"Do you want to risk offending Opalstein right before Nemesis Day, as long as he's still here? But—I say, Mulciber! _The Gryffindors!"_

"You want the Gryffindors to poison his cat? They'd never—they're all a ruddy lot of St. Francis's, and the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs as bad or worse."

"Exactly. They're _all_ soft about their pets. And if something were to happen to their owls…?"

"They'd all be as sick as hydras!"

"Er…quite. Opalstein is right about one thing: if we were to mount an assault on the other Houses themselves, they'd join forces against us out of sheer spite, and we should be defeated. But they'll never think of defending the school mews."

"We could burn the mews down!"

"Oh, how clever, Mulciber. That way we could kill all the school owls at the same time, not to mention our own, and how pleased the Headmistress would be with us! Idiot! You'll be wanting to paint them with Smaragdoleum next."

An oppressive silence reigned for some minutes—and then Vulcanus said, in a rather small voice, as if breathless from his own great inspiration:

"Well, why _not_?"

"Why not…?"

"Why not paint 'em with Smaragdoleum? Cover their feathers with emeralds? It wouldn't kill 'em, exactly, but it'd be deuced uncomfortable—believe me, I _know_—and think of all the Gryffs and Claws and Puffs, spending the hols pulling out their own owls' feathers, and getting scratched all to blazes for their trouble!"

Clodius's glass dropped from his eye. He gazed upon Vulcanus with a wild surmise

"Why not?" he breathed softly, "after all, why _not_?"

"And the best of it is, it was Opalstein who put it into my head, with his damned cheap sneers. So he's served our turn without even meaning to, hasn't he?"

Malfoy and Mulciber stared pop-eyed at each other for a moment, as men will who have seen some great hope fulfilled suddenly against all expectation—and then they fell into the peculiarly demoniac laughter of schoolboys who've found something exceptionally painful to inflict on their enemies.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hogwarts 1910**

_**The Wizards' Nemesis**_

_3._

"_What a light this principle throws on the defeat of the tender Dervish, the compassionate Zulu, and the morbidly humane Boxer, at the hands of the hardy savages of England, France, and Germany!"_

—George Bernard Shaw

It was recognised by most of the houses at Hogwarts that to seek one's revenge before midnight of "the day" was the act of a coward, bully, cad, and brute; it was equally recognised that Slytherin House invariably did so. So generally was this acknowledged that it had long since lost any value as a strategic manœuvre and had come to be regarded as merely a quaint old Slytherin custom, along the lines of snake's-head canes, marriage to first cousins, and concentration camps.

Thus at a quarter to eleven Malfoy, Mulciber, and a knot of their Slytherin sycophants staggered sloshing out of the Common Room with a cauldron of glittering green ooze, making enough noise to wake the Dead, those that were not already gliding along Hogwarts' halls. At the entrance to the dungeons they met Opalstein apparently returning from a punitive expedition of his own_—_for like so many outsiders, _plus Serpentardiste que le Serpentarde,_ Simon-Magus displayed a punctilious conformity to the ancient traditions of his House, and had even founded many of them himself.

"Taking your absinthe in buckets now, Malfoy?" he remarked, tapping the cauldron with his wand. "I imagine that once you've downed this, even Mulciber's conversation will seem marginally endurable. As they say, 'absinthe makes the heart grow fonder.'"

"As it happens, we _real_ Slytherins are going to hex the other Houses," growled Mulciber, "not being a lot of yellow—"

"—and black Badgers, as you were doubtless going to remark; I cannot imagine any other termination to that sentence which would not involve you in serious complications," smiled Opalstein blandly. "Can _you_, Malfoy?"

"Of … of course not," returned Clodius with a hard look at Vulcanus, biting off each word like a piece of bitter chocolate. "The last thing Mulciber would do is to make an offensive remark to a fellow Slytherin."

"Yes; I rather think it would be — the very last thing."

"But you understand, my dear Opalstein," said Clodius, with a sudden thin smile, "we really mustn't speak to the details of our revenge as of yet. We should so hate to spoil the surprise that is awaiting you. Why, I imagine that next year, we shall sit around the common room fire, telling and retelling the story."

"'But I shall laugh at this a twelvemonth hence, to think that those that were mine enemies…,' as our great national poet puts it. But, Malfoy, all laughing apart," Simon-Magus's voice changed, and his countenance seemed altered from that of a world-weary Mephistopheles to an earnest Cassandra's, "I really do advise you all, _as_ a fellow Slytherin, to return to the Common Room and stay there — for your own safety."

"And I know that advice coming from a fellow Slytherin is well worth following. In this case, however… "

Simon-Magus bowed. "Your blood be on your own heads," he said, and the habitual curve returned to his lips. "You know, you cannot think how refreshing that remark is to make. One gets so tired of being held responsible for every calamity, especially those obviously caused by the blank, staring stupidity of others. It makes one feel that one's own more artistic effects are under-appreciated. _Auf wiedersehn_." The exceptionally well-cut black cloak faded into the dungeons.

"'Oy, oy, oy! Mizder Malvoy, ve do vant you to be zafe!' What's his game, I wonder?"

"P'raps he's heard about the vote, and thinks I'll put a good word in for him. The story _was_ in his paper, after all … or perhaps.…" Clodius considered. Then he beckoned to a saucer-eyed First Year. "Here, you boy—"

"Zabini, sir!"

"M'yes, Sabina—cut along to the School Mews, and make sure there's no Lethifold in the closet."

"What, me alone, sir?"

"Yes, you alone. No-one will see _you_. Now, go! Merlin's Beard, I believe they must be recruiting First Years among House-Elves and Garden Gnomes now," he snapped, as the little figure fluttered into the darkness with the squeak of a frightened bat. "Did the little Krup want to take a brass band along?"

"A brass band? I shouldn't think so," replied Mulciber, staring. "What would be the point?"

"Sometimes, Mulciber," said Malfoy, wearily, "I ask myself the same question."

* * *

Some five—ten—fifteen minutes had elapsed since the departure of the wretched Zabini. As the moments expired, gasping and clutching like a Bernhardt, the night seemed to grow blacker and blacker, Mulciber redder and redder, and Malfoy whiter and whiter, like some sort of Borussian tricolour. At last Mulciber, already sputtering fitfully, exploded into a full eruption: "Come on, Malfoy! We've been standing here an hour! Let's get on with it!"

"Hold hard—there's something up. Why hasn't young Golliwog come back?"

"What d'you expect? He's funked it — "

"Why should—?"

"—and now _you're_ funking it, too! You've been trying to oil out of Nemesis ever since this afternoon! Let Opalstein put the wand up you properly, haven't you?"

"Now, see here, Mulciber—!"

"Or p'raps you just can't stand that the whole thing was _my_ idea! Oh, yes, it's Malfoy and Opalstein and Aurelian ruddy Orphrey that are supposed to be oh so clever, and Mulciber is just supposed to shut up and say, 'Yes, Mr. Malfoy,' and 'No, Mr. Malfoy,' like some cursed House-Elf — but when it comes down to actually _doing_ something —"

"That's a split infinitive," remarked Malfoy.

"— when it comes down to actually doing something," roared Mulciber, "you ivory wand Wizards haven't a single spell among you, and we plain, practical Wizards of business have to manage the job! Here, you kids, you can either run along back to your beds with Mummy Malfoy to tuck you in and kiss you good-night, or you can be Slytherins and come along with me. I'm off to the mews!" He shouldered off, and, after two or three shrinking glances at Clodius, the first and second years began to shuffle after him with the cauldron.

Clodius with a sort of _glissade_ interposed himself between them and the door. Mulciber glared at the obstruction, head down and eyes rolling, like a bull about to charge.

"Just one moment, Mulciber," said Malfoy. His nose had grown longer, his cheeks and chin sharper, his lips thinner and thinner throughout this speech of his rebellious schoolfellow; and he now drew himself up to his full four and three-quarters feet, slid a glass like an icy diamond into one glacial cerulean eye, and addressed Mulciber with all the concentrated hauteur of one whose blood had passed blue and gone on to indigo, "Let us, by all means, be off to the mews. I shall watch the unfolding of the plan of our great Slytherin tactician with no inconsiderable interest. Nevertheless, I should like to make two things quite clear: First, you are a tick and a Krup and a cad. Second, when this infallible plan of yours goes Squib, as it inevitably shall, and we are all defenestrated, decollated, decorticated, or incinerated, I shall nevertheless find a certain measure of comfort in witnessing, and having these fellows witness, that over-inflated, washed-up, and rotting Plimpy you have got balanced on your shoulders neatly knocked off, shot out the window, and striking two or three times against the walls, before splattering in fat and greasy ruin on the jagged rocks below, as a warning to all the other 'plain, practical Wizards of business' that there is nothing practical about managing a job by being brutal, and nothing businesslike about not using one's brains. That is all. Shall we go?"

* * *

The Slytherins stood in an arched, octagonal chamber, pierced with tall lancets on alternating walls, and with floors spread with white down, scattered with white bonelets, and splattered with white droppings. They had burst into the mews at a rush, wands drawn, at Mulciber's direction; nothing more alarming, however, had confronted them than the black shapes of dozens of the school owls in the centre of the chamber, silent in ranks upon their open roosts like so many carven images, save for one solitary unslumbering Scops in a cage near the front, squeaking in some agitation at the invading Slytherins, frantically batting its black-feathered wings, and rolling terrified eyes that seemed rather larger than its head.

"You first, cocky," grunted Mulciber, reaching into its cage, grasping the tiny talons and drawing the unfortunate creature out, and ladling a great dollop of the emerald slime onto its bedraggled plumage. The owlet squeaked and flapped more and more feebly, as he thrust it into the cage, where it lay with its claws in the air, making mewling noises not unlike a small fag who has burned his prefect's morning toast. Mulciber guffawed. "That'll teach you to speak before you're spoken to! Here, you fellows smear the Smaragdoleum onto the others — good and thick, now." He handed off the ladle to a second year who was chortling in a dutiful manner, and drew his own wand. "_Lumos_." A dim blue light pervaded the chamber.

"Take care you don't cover their eyes and beaks," said Malfoy, coldly, as their flunkeys set about painting the silent figures. "If you kill them, we shall get into serious trouble, Nemesis Day or not — and make absolutely certain you don't touch any Slytherin's owl. They should be in those cages, over by the Eastern wall. Gryffindor is on the wall opposite, Ravenclaw is to the left, and Hufflepuff to the right._ That_ way is East, Mulciber."

"That's all right, _Mr_. Malfoy. Sneer all you've a mind to. What price your 'brains' against my 'brutality' now, eh? What do you chaps say? Maybe little Clodius would like his precious owl painted, too! After all, it's Nemesis Day — maybe I owe you a little revenge, too. _Succingio!_"

"Mulciber! Curse you, let me go!" Clodius struggled against the invisible bonds that restrained him.

"Let you go! Not likely. I've got a rare and expensive sort of owl to paint," Mulciber took a stride toward the cages on the Eastern wall. "And after I do your owl, we'll see how _you_ like wearing a coat of Smaragdoleum."

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Dare, eh? We'll see who dares do things in Slytherin from now on."

"I swear, Mulciber, my mother will have you expelled."

"Ho-ho! Your mother will be too busy pressing a cloth to her dear boy's brow — which should be jolly uncomfortable when there's no skin on it. Merlin's Beard, I just wish that Opalstein kept his filthy cat up here, too." He leaned down to peer into the cages — then stiffened. "Here — where are they?" He swung round, bellowing at Clodius. "What have you done with 'em? Where are those owls?"

"Where are the —?" Malfoy stared and drew in a hissing breath. "You _have_ Squibbed it. You've Squibbed it completely, you stinking, stupid son of a — " The rest of his interesting discourse was unfortunately rendered inaudible as the rolling tones of the midnight bell tolled over Hogwarts, ushering Nemesis in to preside over her festival — and as the golden tones of the bell died away, a voice, equally rich, golden, and menacing, and one hatefully familiar to the Slytherins, seemed to take up, echo, and re-emphasise its message of vengeance:

"You know, Mulciber, much as I hate to say it, I have to agree with young Malfoy. You could use an extra bath or two — and, really, I thought everyone knew that owls were nocturnal. _Lumos._"

The mews were flooded with light, a light that disclosed some fifteen of Hogwarts' most popular, accomplished, and dangerous students, all with wands drawn and at the ready. Among them were, of course, Reggie Weasley, red-haired and freckled, the stalwart Roland Wood, and the lovely Rose St. Cyprian, all grim, gleaming, and self-righteous in their scarlet and gold; Angela Britomart the Polymagus, and Cambina Pennyfeather, and Vespaulus Turpin, the best-looking boy at Hogwarts, wearing the blue and bronze and smug expressions that get Ravenclaws so disliked; and in gold and black, chubby Ambrosius Fudge, skinny Francesca Abbott, the deceptively kindly looking Septimus Perks, and the wildly enthusiastic Wilfred Diggory, all with the shining expressions of those who see their duty clearly and intend to enjoy it thoroughly. At their head, with an eye like Mars to threaten and command, stood Aurelian Orphrey, the only student at Hogwarts who had ever himself been designated a "Class Four Threatening Creature (Approach With Caution)."

"That means," said Aurelian, spacing his words carefully, lest the gaping Mulciber should misunderstand, "that owls go out flying at night, Mulciber. Indeed, I don't quite see why you weren't surprised to see the owls actually sitting on their open roosts. After your friend Opalstein opened all the owls' cages earlier, you really needn't have looked for any in here at all."

A more likely place to look for owls at that juncture might, perhaps, have been in Mulciber's throat. Certainly his next few utterances sounded as if they might have been uttered through several layers of feathery material, and when he was at last able to articulate, the sound possess a certain quality of ululation.

"Who? Who? Who?"

"Opalstein. Rather a paltry revenge, that; fancy his not knowing that they're all bound to return before morning. One might question whether you Slytherins have taken due advantage of the far too expensive education that has been lavished upon you by your no doubt doting parents. You may object that Professor Brocklehurst's Magical Creatures lectures are too dull to listen to — and certainly, that is a valid objection. They _are_ dull — much too academic and theoretical for a pushing, practical House like Slytherin. Still, lessons must be learned. Obviously, therefore, it is a case for real-world application. If one may go by your recent bird-imitations, you Slytherins should all make splendid owls. Ladies and gentlemen, — on the count of three—"

"You can't!"

"On the contrary — all of us can. We _have_, in fact — that first owl you painted is little Zabini. The others consist mostly of balls of yarn provided by our Hufflepuff friends. The ironical thing is, most of us learned by watching Opalstein Transfiguring his cat this afternoon…One…"

"Opalstein!"

"Oh, you needn't be worried that your own dazzling idea of ornamenting the owls' plumage with Smaragdoleum will be neglected — only we do think it more appropriate for Slytherin than for our own Houses… Of course, after we've done you, I'm afraid there won't be any Smaragdoleum left for your _real_ owls, when they come back. Two…any last words, by the way?"

"_I_ have some." Clodius Malfoy's face wore the sort of venomously satisfied smile that Cassandra's must have when the Trojan Horse started to exude Greeks. "Well, Mulciber — there goes the Plimpy."

"Three."


End file.
